


if there were any more left of me, i’d give it to you

by cyanica



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, Bottom Dean Winchester, Castiel Bears the Mark of Cain (Supernatural), Choking, Dark, Dark Castiel, Domestic Violence, Episode: s15e09 The Trap, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt No Comfort, Internalized Victim Blaming, M/M, Mark of Cain, Mild Gore, Obsession, Pain, Painful Sex, Possessive Castiel (Supernatural), Possessive Sex, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Content, Top Castiel (Supernatural), Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22419763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyanica/pseuds/cyanica
Summary: His own flesh had grown unfamiliar and desolate. He wasn’t worth the empty grazes of feverish lips pressed to his, or the soulless words of pure possession unto his being.He was worth a repulsive fuck into a mattress that was littered in a million broken shards – in a universe made of fragmented glass from the smithereens.Or, the Mark made Cas go crazy, there’s a bed full of broken glass, and Dean tries to comprehend the absurdity of the universe because this isn’t supposed to be what winning feels like.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 62





	if there were any more left of me, i’d give it to you

**Author's Note:**

> contains all that v f’ed-up shit like non-con sex, extisitial crises and feelings ew. read those tags, coz this is quite fucked in the sense that the character’s headspace doesn’t recognize rape for what it is, and internalised self victim blaming(?) is a thing.
> 
> this is rated as explicit because on-screen noncon does take place, however i wouldn't call this smut or porn, rather it's more about internalized thoughts.
> 
> title from ‘heaven’s gate’ - fall out boy.

It was always the end of all things – every way he looked at it. It shattered all sense and meaning to the point where it was insanity, yet embodied complete clarity and lucidity each time his pounding head decided to comprehend the absurdity of the universe. And being the center of it make the inhumane migraine behind his eyes rip his skull to shreds and bleed through every sense of his brain, as if he had broken the fabric of reality by defying its creator, and it was repealing back by breaking apart at the seams and collapsing into smothering, grey dust all around him.

Or, it was the tequila. Maybe Cas’ eyes. That, too.

But, if Dean Winchester knew anything about anything at all, with his crumbling sense of selfishly sacrificial indomitability to be the world’s savior, that made up the matter of his mind, it was three-fold: 

One: Bert and Ernie were gay. 

Two: he should’ve taken that aspirin when Sam shook the bottle in his face. 

And three: winning wasn’t supposed to be  _ this _ .

They were rats in the maze from the jump, the game was rigged from the get-go, and God – from the cosmic wasteland that imprisonment him – laughed in a chaotic state of hysteria at watching him try to conceptualise the blueprints of his constructed reality as if the laws of the universe weren’t whatever Chuck decided they were. 

And even still, with the creator of humanity and  _ everything at all  _ locked away, it felt more and more like he was still living in a dollhouse, on a set. And though they were free to go left or go right – they were still fucking trapped in a glass cage like mice, an inescapable box made entirely for them to fight in, to die in, to kill each other in, and to lose their minds in.

They weren’t  _ free _ until the universe ceased to exist, or until they ceased to exist from it. Maybe that would allow a chance for the insignificant lives of the nobodies within the  _ ‘story’ _ to live unburdened with the knowledge that they solely existed for no reason at all. He didn’t know if their roles had been worse, but he quickly realized it never really mattered. The universe was willed into existence for entertainment, and that seemed to solidify every fault and evilness and apocalypse that ever happened within it throughout its history as nothing more than complete  _ sense _ .

Dean Winchester had never been a religious person, nor an existential one, but his fraying mind begged to ask him the question of: if Chuck was truly gone from the Earth, would the show go on? What was life without a God? Without a creator, an auteur, what was left? Hopefully, nothing but abandoned plotlines and absent conflicts and devoid villains. Hopefully, nothing but a nonexistent end to all things, and the promise of free will which had kept him alive since he’d realised he’d lost it in the first place. Hopefully nothing–...

Well, that was exactly it, wasn’t it, Dean Winchester?  _ Nothing _ .

But here he was, still fighting the fight that never was, masquerading as a piece of fantastical fiction instead. 

They had lost. They had lost, because –

Because – though Chuck was as close to dead as God could be, he was still a writer and words could not die; the story couldn’t end because nothing ever really ended. Nothing stayed dead like it was supposed to be, and the show would always go on.

And tonight, Dean was the starring role, as he had been for the last forty-one years of his life, and though the villain wasn’t Chuck this go-around, he had sickening thought of who it would be.

Castiel – in all this tainted, havocking, angelic glory – loomed before Dean like a shadow that bled darkness as if it were a disease, infecting his own impurity with newfound devastation. The Mark of Cain glowed on his forearm with a mocking crimson twilight that rotted his body down to the core, morphing the Angel into something wickedly oxymoronic. So ironic it was evil. 

An Angel and a Demon. One flesh. He would have thought it defied the laws of the universe, but – well, he knew better than to think there were rules to this game by now. 

Dean sat on the edge of the bed, a bottle of The Good Stuff in one hand, and Castiel’s wrist in the other. The Angel who wasn’t an Angel looked at his pleading face –  _ don’t, please… no, don’t  _ – and disregarded that fact that Dean was human at all. 

The tequila bottle became snatched from his hand, fell apart into a million unfixable fragments – as did the illusion of liberation – and suddenly glass shattered against the air and liquor saturated the painted wall above the bed like a twisted abstract artwork. Shards of white had grazed their skin from above, falling onto the bed in hazardous seams. It was bound to cut them as they lay, tear their skin up and down like jagged razors, and bury the smithers into their flesh like corpses left the rot and decay over weeks in the earth, but –

– But Cas liked that, Dean knew. The blood that rained down from their bound flesh as they become one connected them in a way like children making blood oaths. It was innocent enough to be sinister – vile enough to be perfect. The contamination of flesh and blood bonded the two in the same way the Mark had, and it riveted from it.

And so, sex on a bed of broken glass and the unrelating idea to tear himself from the existence of the universe became what constructed Dean Winchester’s nights, the same way the moon and the stars did. 

The first time glass had broken, Dean had shouted, and suddenly broken glass had turned into a shattered ulna –

– and then Dean wasn’t shouting anymore because he had been screaming. 

He could still feel the undead burn against his own arm, an echo of where  _ his _ Mark used to lay. It stole his voice and pounded his soul into submission, as if he was a fanatic addicted to the paradox of heaven untied with hell – kneeling with pure intoxicating devotion at the Angel-Demon’s feet, the way someone would to a God – because the Mark unified them both in religious ways.

“You’ve had enough.” Cas whispered with cold toxicity, and Dean’s head swam as he soaked in the acidic words, getting a whole new kind of drunk off them. The booze he drank to numb the nights never seemed to work, but it did always leave him drowning in hazy intoxication and nauseating sluggishness. His body became trapped within itself to the point of paralysis, but somehow managed to leave his mind inescapably awake during the whole ordeal. 

During the  _ “where did you get those bruises, Dean?” _ s and the  _ “fuck if I know, Sam.” _ s, his consciousness replayed the instances of all these fucked-up yesterday’s again and again – infinity after infinity – forever inside a broken loop within his shattering grip on sanity. 

Cas used to kiss him. He would collide their breathy mouths together, bite down on Dean’s lips until they bled, shove his tongue so far down his throat, Dean choked. 

Cas tasted like the stars. Burning every inch of his skin until it charred off in horrifying chunks that wept blood and pus, disintegrating like a humanly piece of living death, defying the universe like a villainous God, or a demonic Angel.

But now –

His own flesh had grown unfamiliar and desolate – perhaps even  _ dead _ to whatever was left of Cas. He wasn’t worth empty grazes of feverish lips, or the soulless words of pure possession unto his being. 

_ “I own you.” _

He was worth a repulsive fuck into a mattress that was littered with a million broken shards – in a universe made of fragmented glass from the smithereens. 

He was thrown back onto the bed like the strings snapped from the puppeteer orchestrating his body, which no longer felt like his own, and cast into the mattress like a ragdoll in God’s dollhouse. 

He was bleeding from the back of his head – blood exploded from where his skull struck the wooden headboard, and  _ God _ , had that amplified the headache into an agonizing pound of nauseating vertigo and blurry eyes; but he could still vividly feel the pull and tear and rip of his own clothing snag on his skin through the haze of drunk delium. Castiel had ripped away bits of Dean’s flesh from under his fingernails, torn up delicate skin that Dean didn’t feel anymore, as if his body was no longer apart of him.

Dean’s eyes darted around the room, drifted to the ceiling, and tried to fixate themselves on the door where Sam was somewhere on the other side. He’d learnt to let reality sink away, and though it was fucked up and borderline insane, he thought of his brother as Castiel’s cock thrust itself into him without so much as any preparation or warning. 

He thought that Sam could clean him up, wash away the blood and the cum and the smell of vile, poisonous sex in the bathtub, purify him in a baptismal shower to rid Dean Winchester of his sins, because where Dean was diseased and tainted and broken, Sam was clean and good and hopeful. 

He thought that maybe, Sam could save him from something he shouldn’t need saving from. 

The Mark was angry and venomous, and Cas is not who he once was, but neither was Dean – he didn’t have the will to save himself. It just isn’t who he was anymore. That stupidly in-love, martyrous Dean had died with that fallen broken Angel, Castiel, and the ones lying in glass were mirroring an image of living death. Imposters. Shells. 

_ (“Cas, c’mon. Don’t. Get the fuck off m– Ngh!” _

_ “It wants this – ...wants  _ you _.”) _

So Castiel endlessly forced himself into Dean. In a violent, agonising way, Cas bled Dean dry, and abused his skin raw. 

The Mark demanded more and more of Dean’s broken flesh, tormented soul, as if it was seeking revenge in a deranged way; but Dean could no longer comprehend such thoughts. Cas was wrenching Dean's hair back from his head, slamming it into the wooden headboard to magnifying the burning agony within his collapsing brain. The sound bone made bashing against wood was like bullets raining from a shotgun. 

He tried to say Cas’s name, he thought. Maybe. But the air was stolen as soon as it passed from his wet, salivating mouth and Dean began to see a constellation of pure celestial starlight burn from the insides of his eyelids as oxygen diminished from his lungs. 

His attempt to inhale a breath was stifled by Cas’s hand forcing down onto his throat, crushing his trachea like something as insignificant as dust. The sounds escaping his lips sounded like steel wool on glass, ripping inhuman noises from a mangled throat, and Dean’s racing mind wondered what the hell he would have to tell his brother this time. Black and purple watercolor bruises were already tainting his skin, as if his body was breaking down and rotting away.  _ Dying _ , the glimpse of lucidity within his mind suggested.  _ Hm _ , replied everything else.

And Castiel smiled from above, something wicked and overpoweringly demonic stretched across his face. His eyes bled black, if only for one moment, just as the inhuman ruby glow of the Mark contorted his features into something unrecognizable. The Angel he had loved morphed into a villain of Chuck’s creation, and it was so fucking poetic, so juxtaposingly beautiful – so  _ God _ , that he wanted to weep. The author may be dead, but his stories weren’t – his words weren’t. And –

– perhaps the brotherly fratricide storyline was epilogued, and a lover murdering the other had turned into gospel.

Reality collapsed at the seams when he finally passed out – whether from oxygen deprivation, intoxication, or that fucking unrelenting ache pulsing from his ass and lower back, which ascended up to his screaming brain. It ground the bones in his head together, firing neurons in a chaotic state of mania throughout his body that lay in what may as well have been the gallows amongst the smithereens of the universe. 

He felt his mouth moving on it’s own accord, whispering mournful eulogic rasps that were ripped from mangled, bloody vocal cords, and a blackening throat. 

He was praying. Pitiful, weak little sounds that weren’t words, and didn’t comply with the laws of language – but through weeping breathes and a broken voice, Dean Winchester prayed.

It was the next morning, when Sam asked why he looked like a Monet painting. Cas went into town with the Mark screaming inside his blood and came back too satisfied, too content than he should be. And Dean threw up when he was lucid enough to remember not knowing who he prayed to, or what he prayed for –

But somehow his poisoned, deadened body dragged itself like a devotee up to the basement door, and then collapsed onto its knees in front of the Ma’lak box –

– which shifted everything into Act Three.

He wept as the curtains closed.


End file.
